Something in me broke when I was fifteen
that left me scared and unable to sleep.
I couldn’t do anything.
They took me away, we drove for five hours
to greet antiseptic walls and barred windows.
This, then, is the hospital bed.

This, then, was the hospital bed
I climbed into when I was fifteen.
There was a high, shallow ledge beneath my window
that I would fold myself in when I couldn’t sleep.
I had been there for seventeen hours.
I didn’t know where I’d put anything

and I was unable to do anything
but fear the strange men living under my bed.
The world was out to get me. I spent hours
running when I was fifteen.
I only wanted to sleep
but they looked through my window,

I saw them looking at me through my window.
To get rid of them, I would have done anything.
I would have done anything to just get some sleep
without the threats living under my bed.
I was ready to kill at the age of fifteen,
I was living my life by the hours.

Hours of doctors, hours and hours
and hours. In the quiet room there are no windows.
They check on you every fifteen
minutes to see if you’ve done anything.
They pin you down, on the floor, on the bed,
and, with Thorazine, I sleep.

But it was the threat of sleep
that kept me up all those hours
while I was waiting for a hospital bed.
I was afraid of open windows,
the largeness of the word “anything”.
I was only fifteen.

They took away the bed when I was able to sleep.
After fifteen days, we drove back those five hours.
They unlock my windows. They say it wasn’t anything.

It Was The Snow That Brought You To Me

It was the snow that brought you to me.

All day I have been waiting to sit down and write,
an ache that bites into the bone.

I spend all day sewing and when it starts snowing
I run to the door to make sure that it`s
still coming down.
Good things come with the snow, you see.
It was the snow that brought you to me.

(Although I shudder and shake to think of the state
I`d be in if you hadn`t been
online that day, but no matter -
sometimes a lucky break is all that it takes.)

I am delirious with the promise of
bad weather. When I walk out the door
I will it to keep falling down, and the
sky obliges as I walk downtown.

I am joyful when the flakes fall down
on me, all bundled up with my worn purple
scarf knotted tightly around my
throat. I look up, I am struck by the
dimensions of each flake, bits of
paper clinging to my hair.

I chainsmoke.
Soon, I am cold.
A barren chill fills me. My bags, my skirt,
I am covered in ice and i think about how the
snow brought me to you.

And i wait for the wind to welcome me.
I wait for a sign from the stars
and I wait, and I pray that you will soon
call me forth like I did this cold weather.

Sonnet In Ten Lines

Water-drops hang on the trees like leaves,
precarious above the still-wet ground.
For the lack of autumn, winter grieves
beneath the cold white snow, the grass is brown.
The lights, through branches, make a circle-shape,
the brightness hurts the eye to look at it.
The pavement cracks around a sewer-grate
that`s boarded up and now is poorly lit
and, safe behind the chinks of a stone wall,
one`s free to fall, and fall, and fall, and fall.

The Day We Met

The day we met, the snow was
billowing down like feathers from
a swan. I know it went well because,
instead of being stricken dumb,

you hugged me when you got out of
the car. You held the door open
for me, and that was enough
to ensure I`d be heartbroken

if it didn`t work out, and it didn`t.
You never called me back. Instead,
you hid yourself and, hidden,
messed up something in my head.

Now, when I look up, I know
you only existed because of the snow.

This Burning Desire

Be still, the rock on which I
lie. This burning desire admires my
thighs.

I look up to you find you shuddering
bye. Your smile makes it`s way to my
eyes. A burning desire, I open my
thighs.

Your abscence gapes as wide as the
sky. You looked at me - you can`t
deny that your desire admired my
thighs.

But you are in every car that drives
by. Once I sat in the passenger
side, hiding desire by crossing my
thighs.

I hide my desire by crossing my
thighs. You hide your desire by closing your
eyes. I could tell that you likes me when I heard you
Sigh. I felt your desire when I looked at your
thighs.

I am not still. I am surprised that
you`re not there when cars drive
by. Someone plucked you from my
side. I deny my desire by closing my
thighs.

Infection

What, then, is the infection that comes forth?
Is it the swollen throat, the tightening
of the chest?

It is the shriek when I try to breathe.
It is the pulse that quickens when you leave.

I have had it for three weeks. Some disease has its
hold on me. Something has broke in my throat.
I croak when I speak, I drink honey with tea,
but when I drink it, I choke and I spill it on me.

You came with the snow and it
came when you left. It was the space between us,
so close, that chose to infect. I couldn't see straight
and when I left the car and walked to my
door, I was flushed with a heat that I thought you had
shared with me.

You went away, but the fever remained.
The illness quickens, I rise with it too.
I will never be good as new.

Satsuma

By unpeeling these blossoms, I find you
in the folds of the rind, satsuma sweet
and chilling the air. I don't know when I
last saw you like this, balancing an orange
in one large hand. You said you liked the way
the pieces sectioned neatly in your palm.
I said that when I try, it comes apart
all wrong. There is a trick to it, you see,
a certain way of pressing your nail in
the divide between the flesh and the peel
that parts it precicisely each time,
but it doesn't work when I try. I am
left with a mess that stings the open flesh
where my skin is cracked from hard weather and
stress. You leave your peelings behind, and I,
if I tried, could piece them together and
reform that orange sphere. But when I look at
the ones that I left behind, I want to
cry. I have left nothing salvageable.
No planet can be made from such a mess.
I leave mine behind, but I scoop up your
rinds. I will keep them in my desk with the
rest, as a ward against the day you left.

Bad Magic

I was afraid you had left me
again, and disappeared into the
air.

When you came back, it was like a
magician had pulled a rabbit from his
hat. You tease me with hope, you tease me so
bad, it's a wonder you came back.

I have fallen back into a
trap. I smoke a pack a day when I
used to smoke half. It's the threat of you
not coming back. It keeps me on edge and
when the phone rings, I fall off the ledge.
I look for you in every car that drives by

but you lied. You didn't come back. You
are the rabbit tucked back in the hat and I am the
gap in the caul.

I am the bad magic trick. I am the
girl who's been bricked in the
wall. I can see through a crack and I don't
like what's going on when you think I am gone.

You think I can't see, but there's a
trick up my sleeve. You have cut me in
half, but I came back.

I have swallowed your wife.
How neatly the pieces of your
life align beneath the stage lights.
I will step on your back. I will
kill the black hat.

I was bisected. My magic
infects. Oh, how I will laugh.

I will come back.

Reflections on the Swine Flu Pandemic of 2009

Lately, whenever I smoke, my fingers reek
of it, so on my way to the bus stop, I go to the
drugstore to pick up some hand sanitizer.

When I walk in the door. I see a
dispenser standing right in front of the checkout,
and I am reminded of my first day of university, and how there were
hand sanitizer dispensers every five feet that you walked.

That was the year of the swine flu pandemic. That was the
year there were hand sanitizer stations everywhere you went.
In the schools, in the malls, on the shops, on the streets.
Everywhere you werent there were people rubbing disinfectant
on their hands.

I loved it.
Finally, an excuse for my excessive hand-washing, and I could
stop paying for hand sanitizer since it was everywhere I went.
You would think that with my background, a pandemic would just
make it worse, but I thrilled at being alive in a time where
world-wide everyone was getting sicl. I pretended I was in the
fourteenth century and that it was the plague.

I didn't even care if i caughth it. The H1N1 outbreak
was even better than SARS. I felt calm in the eye of everyone's
panic. In class, I drew comics of pigs for the entertainment of my
desk-mate. It was hard not to laugh at the captions I wrote. My poor
pigs were outraged at the slandering of their good name.

I only knew one person who caught it. My best friend's daughter
was seven at the time. Public schools are as bad as public
pools and the kids are worse than pigeons,
passing pinkeye and head lice back and forth.
It's a wonder that any of them get well.

It passed though.
when I came back from Christmas vacation, I noticed that the
dispensers were gone. Only a few remained, by the door,
in the library. I guess that the scare had died down.

It was for the best, I suppose, but I still miss the
way that panic would spread through the room if anyone
dared to cough.

Gaps (A Ballade)

Of all the times I should have died,
flung to the ground so I could fly
and hit the earth, I didn't glide.
I started low instead of high
and as I fell, a whispered sigh
caught at my now-receding back.
There are some things you can't come by.
I don't remember. There's a gap.

When I was in juniour high
I was too thin and I was shy.
They used to spit as I walked by,
there was no place that I could hide.
Psychotic when I was inside
and lucid when they brought me back -
where were the doctors standing by?
I don't remember. There's a gap.

I should have took it all in stride.
There's something I should clarify -
when I was young, I should have died.
Mental illness glorified,
I stood there and was terrified.
The bones protruding from my back -
eight stone three or eight stone five?
I don't remember. There's a gap.

Now I stand at twenty nine.
There are some things you can't take back.
Oh where did all the years go by?
I can't remember. There's a gap.

Chelsea Grin

she walks in through a haze of smoke,
she was a girl, she's now a ghost.
her stench reverberates the air,
her scalp is white. she has no hair.
the bones protrude throughout her skin,
she once was fat. she now is thin
with ears as sleek and pointed as
with hearing, small and like a bat.
she does not walk. instead she goes
on archéd foot atop her toes.
her eyes are dim with muted sight -
there's something here that isn't right.

her gown is lace and tattered rags,
beneath her eyes are hollow bags.
her cheeks are shrunken, sunk in deep.
her mouth surrounds so many teeth.
she's bruised and scarred from head to limb
with flesh decayed and mottled skin.
there's something bad that's happened here -
her mouth is slashed from ear to ear.

a glasgow smile, chelsea grin,
but chelsea won't be home again.

There Is A Ghost Beneath the Stairs

there is a ghost beneath the stairs
with long and cracking finger-bones,
i do not know how she got there.

maggots crawl in matted hair.
the corridors, she stalks alone.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs.

a hollow grin, an empty stare,
protruding ribs and collarbones.
i do not know how she got there.

the howling wind is cold and bare,
the air is thick with growls and groans.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs.

the muted voice of some despair
is cracked with age and overgrown.
i do not know how she got there.

a shroud of rags is all she wears.
they killed her once with sticks and stones.
there is a ghost beneath the stairs,
i do not know how she got there.

Truck Drives Into Frozen Pond

The day the air breathed into
fog, the truck drove headfirst
in the frozen pond.

A cracking of the ice, a sheet of
white masked what most thought of as an
accident,

though it was clear that it was
not. The guardrails, well-defined,
the bend of road belied
the truck's intent.

Methodically, the truck swerved off the
road and, calculcated, flew into the air.
With fender pointing up toward the
sky, the cab and hood crashed down and
disappeared.

A copse of cops and passers-by
stopped by to see the truck that did not fly.

Now he is drowned.

The Stillness of a Stark Night

The stillness of a stark night envelopes
me. It is dark. I cannot see.

The clean white sheets are threatening.
It is like climbing into a hospital
bed, and I am uneasy in its folds.

Oh, I am old, and covered in aches.
The stiffness of my limbs belies my age.
The ensuing years have done little to
dull the memory of what was done to me,

but there is nothing I can do except breathe,
breathe, breathe. No dreams.
The sheep are all dead,

caught in the act of trying to fly
over a moon that was too high.
The act of dying -
they land on the spikes of a fence.

And I am sure I know what happens next.

There is nothing that can ease the tempest
in me. I watch the ceiling. I continue
not to sleep.

Winter Haiku With Tanka, For Whitney

winter trees lean down
ice-laden branches. this frost
haunts my finger-tips.

frostbit, the age-old
ache buries into the bone.
it melts, but does not thaw.

no footsteps marr the
ground on which we walk. i am
the first to cross this path.

black rook, stark against
the muted sky. it does not
remember the rest.

a leaf that falls and
crumbles to the ground. footsteps
crush all that is left.

december pearls touched,
covered our empty stage. leaves,
hidden beneath these
rocks, these well-worn stones.

I Fling Myself Into the Sea

Because I once rose from the sea
I fling myself into the sea.

My keys, my locks, my music box -
you threw my things into the sea.

The way we touched when first we met,
the gifts you bring - this blue, the sea.

My fingers, bare of anything.
You thre my ring into the sea.

Oh Siren, must your cry by hoarse?
You sing like one who knew the sea.

seashells drift

seashells gently drift
beneath these white-foam waves,
this endless, rolling sea.

Fairy Tales

The poisoned apple falling from the tree,
the finger-prick bleeds on the spinning wheel.
The princess in the tower is not free,
she's been pierced with the wicked witch's needle.
The hair she once let down has now been shorn,
the gowns she used to wear are tattered rags.
They tricked her so she gave up her first born,
there's nothing left to ride. They killed her stag.

The princes don't know where they ought to look,
there's many men but there aren't many girls.
They've been plucked from some kind of fairy book
and wander, lost, in some strange fairy world.

All those girls are rolled up into one,
all of them to marry the same son.

The Lost Years

We tracked her to a point, then she was lost.
With years that passed, all trace of her was lost.

We thought that we had pinned down where she was.
It did not last. All trace of her was lost.

Someone saw her standing on a bridge.
It happened fast. All trace of her was lost.

They said that was the way that it should be.
The stone was cast. All trace of her was lost.

Isabel, what have you done? How could you?
We stood aghast. All trace of her was lost.

On The Declining Quality of my Sonnets

My sonnets are quite terrible
I really don't have much to say
They're awful and they're horrible
They're all that I can write today
My coffee's almost done and gone
I really cannoy write today
I've been awake for much too long
I really don't have much to say
I was awake til half-past two
It was impossible to sleep
I did not know what I should do
And I grew bored of counting sheep

I really don't have much to say
There's nothing I can write today

between the silences

between the silences, there is an echo
of all the things we never said.
it just goes to show

how fucked up in the head
you would have to be to love
someone who loved someone else instead.

i face the obligations of
a regular life
and i am sick of

the lows that come with the highs,
the mood swings,
and how you lied

about so many things.
i cried
because you never gave me your ring.

you said you would die if i died
but you lied. you didn't even try.

trinkets

the trinkets on my shelf,
all the things i kept
belong to someone else.

(i stole them when you left.)
they are not mine.
you left me bereft.

i thought that, with time,
the ache would fade.
i was inclined

to believe that things would change.
they did not.
things stayed the same

and i knew you forgot
the promises you brought.

Lemon Road

In this barren bone-place
there is a chill that may or may not
be yours.

They have buried you deep, I know.
A bed of roses covers you now,
but I do not know just how far
the dirt goes.

I have forgotten.
It has been twenty years since they locked you up
in the trunk of the car. They drove you far -
you were in bad shape, but you were alive.

On that bare day on Lemon Road
they doused you with gas and they
set you on fire. A flick of the match
and you died.

They say you inhaled the smoke.

I have forgotten this, the day of your death.
It has passed by this year without even a glance
at the books that were written about you,
and I am sorry that I did not spare a thought for you
although I do now, remembering the day you died
and the events leading up to your death

Someone's Put Me In a Wooden Box

Someone's put me in a wooden box,
I can't get out unless somebody helps -
keys and doorknobs; hinges, bolts and locks.

A living doll that eats and breathes and talks -
someone's left me aging on the shelf.
Someone's put me in a wooden box.

They diagnosed me with dementia praecox.
They hide me when I'm in declining health.
Keys and doorknobs; hinges, bolts and locks.

I am the girl to whom most trouble flocks.
The only love I know comes from the belt.
Someone's put me in a wooden box.

When the truth came out, it was a shock.
You can't imagine just how bad it felt.
Keys and doorknobs; hinges, bolts and locks.

Words are cruel - instead, hit me with rocks.
My secrets have been told by someone else.
Someone's put me in a wooden box,
keys and doorknobs; hinges, bolts and locks.

i was only eighteen

i no longer find your particular kind of madness
charming. you do strange drugs
and chase young girls the way you
once chased me.

i was too young and naive to know what
i was getting into when i first met you.
you charmed me. i was an easy mark.

i was only eighteen and you swallowed me whole.
i was the rot in your stomach, the one you could
not get away from. i was the one who followed you.
i knew your every move

and when you left, you left me
hating the one you left me for,
when i should have been hating you.

but i can remember the day i stopped loving you,
the relief of no longer being two.

you are the same, and i am the one who has changed.
now i can see that you are the one who is sick. not me.

you were the problem. not me.

i was only eighteen.

Willie

Every day I watch the same man kill himself
over and over and over again.

A flash of light shrieks over the stage.
He has left with the sounds of a car.

His family stays.
There is no one downstage

and he bounds toward me,
a grin on his face.
I, too, would take a pride
in such a performance.
I, too, would do the same

but it is hard to match him
with the man i just saw,
broken with time and age.

Makeup has made him look
that way. I watch him get ready
each day

but he is not the same man
that he is onstage. Still, it's hard
to tell thenm apart, although they
walk and they talk and they move
in different ways.

Every day I watch him onstage
and every day it's the same. He kills himself
over and over again.

For M.

Watching your dark coat retreat
against that dark night was enough
to make me realize that we would no longer meet
in the theatre on those long days. Your cuffs,
your suits, your shirts no longer need mending,
although I was happy to do it.
I will no longer watch you pretending
on stage, nor admire the way your clothes fit
on those long limbs. You are the only man
big enough for me, the only man I could
picture myself being with. I no longer can
avert my eyes from you and raise my hood.

I look at you from across the room.
I know that I will not see you soon.

you always said that i was tight

you always said that i was tight
and then you walked out as i slept
i dreamt of you three times last night

you used to keep me in your sight
you collared me and i was kept
you always said that i was tight

i used to sleep without the light
but then you walked out as i slept
i dreamt of you three times last night

everything is not all right
now in my veins your voice has crept
you always said that i was tight

i always hoped we'd reunite
my greatest loss was when you left
i dreamt of you three times last night

i tore your picture out of spite
it was obscene, the way i wept
you always said that i was tight
i dreamt of you three times last night

strings

black balloon rising
little girl, you let go too soon
and i catch on to your string in the hope that you
will take me away from this place

and i am afraid beneath this
wide sky as i watch you
rise

there is an art to it
a certain rush that is perfected
over time
but you have refused to stay
so i wither and fade

there is no getting out of
this place

Chelsea Hawk

It turned out better than I thought,
with bangs in front, styled up in back.
It's what they call a chelsea hawk.

Pink and purple dye we bought,
the sides are brown instead of black.
It turned out better than I thought.

Online pictures I had sought
to find the one that I should have.
It's what they call a chelsea hawk.

People stare at me in shock.
When my friends saw it, they all clapped.
It turned out better than I thought.

My head is cold - I had forgot
that warmth is something I would lack.
It's what they call a chelsea hawk.

Now I stand taller when I walk.
It feels like my life's back on track.
It turned out better than I thought.
It's what they call a chelsea hawk.

I Have To Get Out Of This Place

I'm going to tear off my face.
Everything's getting too loud.
I have to get out of this place.

I am wearing black ribbons and lace.
My mouth is stretched into a howl.
I'm going to tear off my face.

I've always been lacking in grace.
It follows me into the shroud.
I have to get out of this place.

My ring, I have somehow misplaced.
I can't let you see me right now.
I'm going to tear off my face.

Before I met you, I was chaste.
You took me and started to growl.
I have to get out of this place.

I'm a complete and utter disgrace
and nameless when I'm in a crowd.
I'm going to tear off my face.
I have to get out of this place.

our love

cranes mate for life.
we didn't.

(we feed on each other's madness
as though we had never
been lovers.)

That's When We Turn Out the Lights

Every night we start to fight.
When our words turn into blows
that's when we turn off the lights.

At first, the cost was worth the price.
That was the forfeit that I chose.
Every night we start to fight.

Something here is not quite right.
Uneasiness begins to grow.
That's when we turn off the lights.

You fooled me once, you tricked me twice.
I see the threat that you now pose.
Every night we start to fight.

You mock the fact I don't wear white.
Your cruelty begins to show.
That's when we turn off the lights.

You said you loved me out of spite.
You broke my heart then broke my nose.
Every night we start to fight.
That's when we turn off the lights.

Carcasses

I have been picked apart until I am all bones,
Thanksgiving turkey,
ravaged carcass.

They tear at me this way and that,
looking for the choicest piece of meat

but there is none left to offer.
I have simply been picked clean.

My bones, cracked open.
They scrape out the marrow until all that is
left is a pile of teeth.
Bits of skin litter the serving platter
and it is thick with grease.

These are my tears.
This is what happens when there is
nothing left to give.
My ribs, curved upward like some
great offering,
my thighs, stripped of flesh.

Now I am thin. All that is left remains
scattered on the table,
and it is no great loss to anyone.

The Tides

Curious, my tongue roamed along my jaw
to the source of the pain in my gums -
an abcessed tooth, a rot that occured
from bile rushing over the bone.

It started with a break that was strangely painless
and I spat, disbelieving, into my palm
a small white pearl with a jagged edge.

Soon, the piece that was left in my mouth
was as smooth as a pebbled turned over and
over again beneath some great sea.
Hollow as a seashell,
the tip of my tongue fit neatly inside.

It was the bile that did it, you see,
that hate rising up from my stomach.

But I couldn't keep going forever
and an infection began to grow.
My hands, as scaled as some dead thing
could no longer fit down my throat.

The tides ebb and flow.
I wait for my appointment.
When I show up with a post-dated cheque, they turn me away.

'But I could die," I said.
A rage filled my veins like a tidal wave.
I will rip this tooth out of my head.
I walk home thinking about pliers.
I fantasize about guillotines.
I even research how to make one

but of course I do none of that.
I come back with cash. The waves settle.
They prescribe this and that
and when the infection's died down, I come back.

They invade my mouth. A sort of storm,
and the tooth comes out.
As I heal, I do not smoke or throw up.
I nearly go out of my mind.

I kept the tooth.
They had to break it into five pieces
to get it out of my mouth -
a worn sort of ivory. The pieces look dry.

My tidal pool is now missing a stone,
smooth space between two rocks,
small scar.
I throw up gently.
I feel the tides returning.

someone i used to know

The hardest thing was to let you go -
watching your back as you walked out the door.
Now you're just someone I used to know.

Seeing you leave was the hardest blow.
It wasn't the first time. I'd been left before.
The hardest thing was to let you go.

It all went downhill a year ago.
I should have guessed what you had in store.
Now you're just someone I used to know.

We took things fast when they should have been slow.
You gave me enough but I still wanted more.
The hardest thing was to let you go.

You were on top and I was below.
I was your toy and I couldn't be more.
Now you're just someone I used to know.

Our relationship ended when I thought it would grow.
You came back, you saw me . . . and chose to ignore.
The hardest thing was to let you go.
Now you're just someone I used to know.

i am the suicide queen

these scars prove that i am the suicide queen
it's not that i don't like it here, it's that i don't belong
i should have killed myself when i was nineteen

i never fit in with the popular scene
because i am weak, i am drawn to the strong
these scars prove that i am the suicide queen

i don't understand why my brother is mean
if this is a head game, then i was his pawn
i should have killed myself when i was nineteen

i'll starve myself so i can fit in your jeans
i tell you i'm sick but you never respond
these scars prove that i am the suicide queen

i am not your cecilia, and this is not your dream
i arose from the sea just to find you were gone
i should have killed myself when i was nineteen

my tongue's been cut out so now i can't scream
you never did care for the songs of the swan
these scars prove that i am the suicide queen
i should have killed myself when i was nineteen

Dead In A Ditch

In another life, I'd have been burnt as a witch,
my body, caressed by the billowing flames.
In this life, I'll be found dead in a ditch.

They look at my arms and they say that I'm sick.
I never was given the chance to explain.
In another life, I'd have been burnt as a witch.

Under my sleeves, I hide all kinds of tricks
but all of it's real. This isn't a game.
In this life, I'll be found dead in a ditch.

Barbed wire is strung through the holes in my lips.
I stood by the mirror and chanted your name.
In another life, I'd have been burnt as a witch.

They put me together with stitch after stitch.
I cut to the bone when I aimed for the vein.
In this life, I'll be found dead in a ditch.

If I'm to be murdered, please let it be quick -
did she kill herself, or has she been slain?
In another life, I'd have been burnt as a witch.
In this life, I'll be found dead in a ditch.

the bell jar walls i rage and rage against my skin
and smoke too many cigarettes
the bell jar walls, they settle in

it's such a rush, adrenalin
to use my blood to pay this debt
i rage and rage aganist my skin

and overdose on vitamins
i always want what i can't get
the bell jar walls, they settle in

with all the things that could have been
i wish that we had never met
i rage and rage against my skin

i must admit, to my chagrin
that i am not your juliet
the bell jar walls, they settle in

a mandolin, a violin
there's something here that i regret
i rage and rage aganist my skin
the bell jar walls, they settle in

I'm Sick, But I Am Not A Slut

I'm sick, but I am not a slut.
I am the tragic heroine.
I look for love in strange men's trucks.

Men only like the way I fuck.
This hate is naked on my skin.
I'm sick, but I am not a slut.

You make me drink from paper cups.
My lips are pierced with rusted pins.
I look for love in strange men's trucks.

I've never had the best of luck.
I always lose. You always win.
I'm sick, but I am not a slut.

The tides are calm when I throw up.
The angels walk among the thin.
I look for love in strange men's trucks.

You force me down and make me suck.
There is no mirth within your grin.
I'm sick, but I am not a slut.
I look for love in strange men's trucks.

There's Nothing For Me In This Town

There's nothing for me in this town.
It's cold outside. The air is still.
I'll burn this place straight to the ground.

My heart lives in the lost and found.
I do love you. There's no ill will.
There's nothing for me in this town.

I'm not allowed to make a sound -
it takes a certain kind of skill.
I'll burn this place straight to the ground.

I wear a stolen evening gown
and curl up on the window-sill.
There's nothing for me in this town.

The patron saint of those who drown.
They choke me up with sleeping pills.
I'll burn this place straight to the ground.

They beat me up and stole my crown.
They moved in and they took the kill.
There's nothing for me in this town.
I'll burn this place straight to the ground.

face down in the lake

i dig at my arms for a suitable vein.
when it all gets too much then i reach for the blade.
something in me is about to break
and i shall be found facedown in the lake.

these early hours have caught up to me.
it takes forever to fall asleep.
the threat of the man living under the stairs
is enough to make me pull out my hair.

i'd cut the tongue out of my head
if it meant that you'd shut up instead.
the hole, it grows. i ache and ache.
something in me is about to break.

i'll pile the rocks, i'll build the cairn
and wear long sleeves to hide my arms.
i do not sleep. i do not eat.
i think there's something wrong with me.

i do not smile. a chelsea grin
has been engraved upon my skin.
this isn't real. it's all fake

and i shall be found facedown in the lake.
nothing's changed. it's all the same.
i'm starting to forget your name.
something in me is about to break
and i shall be found facedown in the lake.

The Space Outside A Broken Jar

There are some thing that can't be taught.
and some things that can't be forgot.
All you can do is move ahead
and think a different way instead.

Under the sky and under the sun
makes it easier to be one.
There is no reason. All we are
is space outside a broken jar.

There's things which can be thought upon
to focus on the inner calm.
It's not that hard to be reborn,
to find the eye within the storm.

It's hard to put it into words.
It's hard to talk and to be heard.
The silence stays, it grows and grows.
There's things I know and things I don't.

It's the quiet of the night
that breaks the walls and kills the fight.
There's so much space for thoughts to grow.
The rest is just like coming home.

there is a witch

there is a witch, and she has strung
the people who she lives among
upon a wire that stretches through
a place you may have thought you knew.

she's in a state of well-renown.
she's feared by all who live in town.
they whisper underneath their breath
of who she'll bring next time to death.

if she finds you, she will greet
and show affection with her teeth.
you won't be missed. you won't be found -
there's nothing left upon the ground.

she bakes the children into pies
and sprinkles the pies with children's lies
and no one's really quite sure why
they eat the pies of children's lies.

since she came, the sky is black.
there are no stars. the walls have cracks.
the moths have chewed up all the lace,
she has no plans to leave this place.

there is a witch, and she has strung
the people who she lives among
upon a wire that stretches through
a place you may have thought you knew.

the air is still

the air is still. the
grass roots, they show white and break
beneath booted feet.

technicians don't have any fun
a call centre lament

people call me all day long
"my laptop will not play a song"
"my wireless, it will connect
but i can't browse the internet"
"my laptop, it just will not run"
technicians don't have any fun

they cannot play their dvds
in "computer", there's no drive E
and once inside the registry
what i describe, they do not see
"the software folder? there is none?"
technicians don't have any fun

"i hate Windows, it's not worthwhile"
"why is Office just a trial?"
"you mean, i'm out of warranty?
why can't you troubleshoot for free"
i wish my fucking shift was done
technicians don't have any fun

suicide sestina

i often don't want to get out of bed
i lay on my back and i wish i was dead
i am malnourished and unfed
there's something wrong inside my head
there's nothing i can do, instead
i focus on how much i've bled

you haven't lived until you've bled
twelve years of bloodstains on my bed
i tried to fight it, but instead
i'll do it till i end up dead
i kill the world and close my head
i have an ache that must be fed

the poison in me has been fed
with all the times that i have bled
it fucks up something in my head
i can't get up, i stay in bed
i doubt that i will end up dead
i'll live a hundred years instead

when i want to cut, i smoke instead
it leaves the cutting urge unfed
i often wish that i was dead
i should be, with how much i've bled
i don't want to get out of bed
sometimes i live inside my head

there's a secret world inside my head
i wish that i lived there instead
i'm safe when i am in my bed
the witch i live with has been fed
it's just so cruel, how i've been bled
by the witch who wants me dead

i'd be better off if i was dead
and it was quiet in my head
it wouldn't matter how i bled
if i chose the rope instead
but then the urge would go unfed
i'd rather end it all in bed

i bled and bled, but i'm not dead
i rose in bed with a clear head
i live instead, but i'm unfed

the desire to be thin

i feel the bugs crawling over my skin
i guess the pills were a mistake
i cannot destroy the desire to be thin

i'm all sketched out on dexedrin
there's rituals with each new weight
i feel the bugs crawling over my skin

nobody knows where i have been
i just threw up my wedding cake
i cannot destroy the desire to be thin

i'll always be the fatter twin
you don't know what there is at stake
i cannot destroy the desire to be thin

admitting need is such a sin
instead of real, i go for fake
i feel the bugs crawling over my skin

i want to walk on glass and pins
there is no sleep i stay awake
i feel the bugs crawling over my skin
i cannot destroy the desire to be thin

i was born beneath a curséd star

i was born beneath a curséd star
underneath this wretched sky
i spread my wings and hope to fly
drip the feathers black with tar
i was born beneath a curséd star

there`s a witch who lives inside my head
she wishes she was me instead
she doesn`t know what i wish for
is to be wicked just like her

some people say it`s now or never
i think that i will live forever
a cicatrice is just a scar
i look for love in strangers cars

i tend to block out anything
that doesn`t directly affect me
it`s possible to get away
if you have nothing left to say

i am made of scars and skin
and i only fall for americans
i want to find out who they are
and what it`s like inside their cars

when i``m on acid, all the trees
look like they`re looking back at me
i`m a coquette i really try
in hopes that i can catch your eye

there`s a tightening within my chest
when i think of all that i have left
a cicatrice is just a scar
i was born beneath a curséd star

I Am The Girl Who Cannot Fly (a ballade)

I am viscous, I've been bled.
I gouge at eyes and shriek at skin.
My best friend is the tourniquette,
I take my pride in mortal sin
and idolize the weak and thin.
To save myself, i hide in lies -
I always leave them questioning.
I am the girl who cannot fly.

I am the muted. I walk instead
among the ones who fake their grins.
I am the monster beneath the bed,
I'll gladly rip off all my limbs
and pierce myself with safety pins
as long as I can stay inside.
You want to know how it begins?
I am the girl who cannot fly.

I scream in silence in my head.
My fear is often genuine
that I will someday end up dead,
that I am not the heroine.
I must admit, to my chagrin
I'm easy to provoke to cry.
The pool is deep enough to swim.
I am the girl who cannot fly.

If I am a jar, then there's nothing within.
I don't believe in the word goodbye
because if I did then I'd never see him.
I am the girl who cannot fly.

The Song of the Blade

How can i tell you the things that i crave?
I know that you think my life is on track
but I soon start to ache for the song of the blade.

You can't say that I don't know how to behave
but when I was gone you stabbed me in the back.
How can I tell you the things that I crave?

I lied when I told you that I was okay.
I called you but you moved in for the attack.
I soon start to ache for the song of the blade.

You said I was pretty when I had obeyed.
You looked at me odd and then told me to pack.
How can I tell you the things that I crave?

This is my offering, the gift that I gave.
It's not a surprise, that compassion you lack.
I soon start to ache for the song of the blade.

I've lived most of my adult life as a slave.
I no longer wear white. I only wear black.
how can i tell you the things that i crave?
I soon start to ache for the song of the blade.

These Are The Things That Get Me By

I charge my men for every show,
it doesn't matter what they bring.
It doesn't matter what they owe
as long as it's an offering.
They know I'll accept anything
that strikes the fancy of my eye -
a pearl, a pin, a piece of string.
These are the things that get me by.

I'm sure you really want to know
how I got started in this thing.
It wasn't much to undergo,
I'm taking orders from the king
in hopes that I will wear his ring
and gain affection when he's by.
I shudder and extend my wings.
These are the things that get me by.

I would have thought that I'd outgrow
this constant need for wandering.
I need to run, I need to go -
it often gets quite tiring.
This need, it leaves me wondering.
I ran through thorns and scratched my thigh
and now my skin begins to sting -
these are the things that get me by.

I am the bird that cannot sing,
I am the girl that doesn't cry.
I put on shows, it's disgusting.
These are the things that get me by.

The Lie On the Wall

There`s a lie on the wall.
There`s a lie on the wall and I
can`t get it down,
nor can I pry it off.

It stays there, eight inches
over my head and prevents
me from forgetting who
put it there.

It`s all i can see.
Soon, it will fill the whole room and
push me out.

I may live beneath a bridge,
oh anything to get away
but the words, they are set in stone
and they will not go away.
I will have to go home and live
with them for another day.

I light the matches one by one.
The lie on the wall has been
told by your son,

although you are long dead.
Only he and I remain,
and I wear his name over
everything that I do.
I wait, and he waits too.

We do not make a sound.
I will burn this place
into the ground
to get away from any hated word
that you say, but

my skin takes the place of my walls
and the lie remains.
It has nowehere else to stay.
It has carved itself into my head and
it will not go away.

There is no other way
around it. I will have to
pluck out my heart.
I will give it to you,
although god only knows what you
will do when you`re holding it
in your large hands,

but it will do.
It is enough for me.
My heart bleeds, and you trick
the lies into three because
you want to make sure that they
live with me too

but there is nothing I can do.
I love you.

the crack in the trees

we stare at the sun through the crack in the trees
my fingers touch yours as i reach for the joint
you like me the best when i'm down on my knees

i've been swallowed up by the terrible sea
the blue of it washes and gently anoints
we stare at the sun through the crack in the trees

i ache for the things that you did to me
you bought me with only a handful of coins
you like me the best when i'm down on my knees

you can't say that i don't try hard to please
i pirouette idly, i balance en point
we stare at the sun through the crack in the trees

i really did love you, you have to believe
i was head over heels for some stupid boy
you like me the best when i'm down on my knees

you are allergic to the sting of the bee
it fills me, i fester with some bitter joy
we stare at the sun through the crack in the trees
you like me the best when i'm down on my knees

hooks

i curl up on the windowsill
i hide it but i'm full of rage
i'm only in it for the thrill
i never really act my age
you've gone and put me in a cage
i gave it up i am not free
i met you after seven days
you've gone and sunk your hooks in me

when i cut i aim to kill
my scars are something that amaze
i do it til i've had my fill
i took you in you were a stray
i only want to keep you safe
i'll hide you underneath the trees
but it's really not okay
you've gone and sunk your hooks in me

it takes a certain type of skill
to make sure that the debt it paid
when i wake up i take my pills
i memorize each single page
then act my part upon the stage
sometimes i forget to breathe
they always said that i was strange
you've gone and sunk your hooks in me

you say i won't i say i will
you say let's not i say let's see
these obligations aren't fulfilled
you've gone and sunk your hooks in me

i am the crack in the broken jar

i am the girl who has split into two
my pieces are scattered all over the ground
i am the girl that you wish that you knew
you are the treasure that i've never found
i searched through the trees without making a sound
upon us lights the same bright star
although we live in different towns
i am the crack in the broken jar

when i came back i was black and blue
i held my breath and then i drowned
my uneasiness it grew
and then they stripped me of my crown
because i was of mind unsound
they plucked the feathers and boiled the tar
the coil has been tightly wound
i am the crack in the broken jar

the gnarled branches of the yew
have never failed to astound
the years that i have spent with you
are something that i regret now
although i bend and take my bow
before i'm ushered to the car
i look up and i see an owl
i am the crack in the broken jar

upon my face there is a scowl
when you assume that i'll go far
my lips are grimaced in a howl
i am the crack in the broken jar

i smoke because i hate myself

i smoke because i hate myself.
it came by chance or circumstance -
you came and took me off the shelf.

it really is an odd romance,
it keeps me buried in my head
and leaves me in a kind of trance.

i'll carry this until i'm dead.
sometimes i wander and get lost,
i always leave a trail of bread.

i'm coming home at any cost.
i once was in declining health -
when it was bad, they called the cops.

prescriptions lend a certain wealth,
i'll pay with them and nothing else.

i am not even thirty three

i am not even thirty three
i am already getting old
and i am losing all my teeth

i really thought we had agreed
that i would never become old
i am not even thirty three

my rings mark age much like a tree
mind tend to rust the more i grow
and i am losing all my teeth

i'm rootless i have yet to seed
it will not bloom i am too cold
i am not even thirty three

i am that girl yes i am she
who fakes her way among the bold
and i am losing all my teeth

i fell down and i skinned my knee
i hold too close the things i know
i am not even thirty three
and i am losing all my teeth

piercetta

i want a ring pierced through my flesh
to make myself seem somewhat new.
i only have three piercings left

but getting more is what i do.
it makes me slightly more unique
than other girls who just have two.

my look disgusts. i bring forth shrieks
when i walk in a crowded room.
the memory will last for weeks,

i know they will not forget soon.
i do this because it's a test.
i do this because it's my doom

to always want to be the best
and take my pride in piercéd flesh

Fight or Flight

Sometimes it`s either fight or flight.
I don`t see why I should explain.
You wouldn`t understand my plight,
what I would go through if I stayed
and someone called me by my name.
I wouldn`t be in any shape
to answer calmly - I`m untame.
There`s something wrong. I must escape.

When someone has me in their sight
I often want to get away.
I`m cursed with being too polite,
I know the perfect thing to say
and act as though I`m in a play,
but I grow cold when I am taped.
I often react out of shame.
There`s something wrong. I must escape.

There`s many things that I don`t like.
it`s mostly silence that I crave.
I take my pleasure out of spite,
I scratch your back and spit your name
then leave stage right and go downstage.
There`s nothing left for you to take -
if I should leave, why should you blame?
There's something wrong. I must escape.

If I'm not there, it's all the same.
My presence shouldn't make or break.
If I stay here, I'll go insane.
There's something wrong. I must escape.

Flesh Memory